


Terma

by scullywolf



Series: TXF: Scenes in Between [82]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: Gen, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-28
Updated: 2015-10-28
Packaged: 2018-04-28 15:21:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5095559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scullywolf/pseuds/scullywolf





	Terma

_“You have to help me escape. I’ll help_ you _escape. You have to help me get to St. Petersburg.”_

The woman shook her head, bewildered. “St. Petersburg is five thousand kilometers away. This is not possible. No, we cannot help you.”

The man pulled the door shut behind himself and stepped toward Mulder, raising the knife he carried. He and his wife had a brief exchange in Russian as he gestured with the knife, and Mulder watched, warily. When the man stalked over to the counter and slammed the knife down on it, the woman spoke again, her voice hushed and tense.

“I tell him you are too weak for this, that you must be well before we can help you this way. But he says you cannot stay, and if you leave with both arms, they will find you and take you back for the test.”

“What about Krasnoyarsk? I came here on a truck from Krasnoyarsk. Can you help me get there?”

She looked over at her husband, her gaze resting on him for only a moment before returning to Mulder. “We have no truck now, and even Krasnoyarsk is far. If we ask Sasha for truck, he will suspect. He will turn us all over to the gulag men.”

The couple’s son continued to watch from the doorway, his mouth in a thin line and his shoulders tense with fear. Mulder hated to have dragged this family into his own troubles, but he hadn’t been about to stay and get himself killed by whatever test they were performing with the black oil; he’d had no choice but to make his escape when and how he did.

“Look,” he said, finally, “if you tell me how to get to Sasha’s truck, if I steal it and come back here for you, we can all get out together. I can help you get away from here, away from the test. I give you my word I’ll come back for you.”

The man, apparently understanding more English than he spoke, spoke harshly in Russian to his wife, who jumped in her chair, startled. “He does not want you to return. Better to pretend he never found you at all.”

“You don’t understand, I can _help_ you--”

“No! Is too dangerous, and we have already enough reason to be afraid. Better you go. We stay. Say you were never here.”

Grimly, Mulder nodded. “If that’s what you want, okay.”

After another tense conference between husband and wife, the boy spoke up, haltingly, from the doorway. “In the shed, I have motorcycle…”

“нет!” roared his father, and his mother looked dismayed.

“But… I cannot ride.” He gestured to his amputated arm. 

Mulder dug in his pocket before remembering that his wallet had been taken from him, along with his own clothes, when he’d been captured. He allowed himself a moment to wonder how he was going to get out of Krasnoyarsk with no return ticket, no money, no ID, then shook his head and tried to focus on the more immediate problem of putting more distance between himself and the gulag.

“I can send you money, once I get home. For the truck, for the bike, for everything.”

“мы не хотим Ваши деньги,” the man spat, and an animated conversation erupted again between him and his wife, while Mulder could do nothing but watch.

And wait. And hope.

After what seemed like an eternity, the man threw up his hands and turned, stalking out the front door of the house. The woman spoke a few quiet words to her son, who left the room for a moment, then returned with a scrap of paper and a pencil. He brought them to his mother, who began to write.

“Fifty-thousand rubles,” she said, “wire transfer to this name, my brother, in Moscow. The men at the gulag, they do not know him. They cannot trace.”

Mulder let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, and nodded. “Thank you. Thank you, you’re saving my life.”

“I know this,” she answered, looking up and holding out the slip of paper. “But we could not let you die. And now we must trust that you will help us in return.”

“I promise,” he said, taking the paper and tucking it in his pants pocket. “And I will leave the motorcycle at the airport in Krasnoyarsk. If you can make it down there--”

She shook her head. “Better we claim you stole it. If it returns to us, they will know we helped you.” Standing, she went to the pantry and removed some bread and cured meat, then stuffed both into a sack she pulled from a drawer. “We do not have much, but it is a long ride to Krasnoyarsk. You will need strength.”

He took the sack from her, gratefully, and opened his mouth to thank her again when the front door banged open once more. The man spoke a curt few words, and the woman nodded.

“There is fuel enough for your journey, a can tied behind the seat. You leave now, while it is dark, ride south through the woods until you reach the main road, past the camp. With luck, they will not find you.”

In the dark, Mulder had no way of knowing which direction was which, but he swallowed, hoisted the sack over his shoulder, and thanked the woman before turning toward her husband. The man’s stony expression didn’t change when Mulder tried to thank him as well; he only led the way to the motorcycle, then pointed in a direction parallel with the front of the house.

“You go. Road there. No lights.”

“Which way do I turn once I find the road?”

The man stuck out his left thumb and jerked it sideways. Mulder nodded, swung his leg over the bike, and started it up. With a final glance toward the house, he began to make his way into the woods.

***

To say it was a harrowing ride would have been an understatement. More than once, he narrowly avoided slamming into trees or losing control of the bike as he skittered over the rough and rocky ground. Despite the truck driver’s warning, he flicked the headlight on for just a few moments before realizing he was indeed better off allowing his eyes to adjust to the dark. He rode for what had to have been at least two hours before he finally came to the road, just as he was beginning to despair of ever finding it at all. 

The road, though pot-holed, was a stark relief after his bumpy trek through the woods. He was able to pick up speed at last, the miles flying by under his tires until just after dawn, when the motorcycle’s engine began to sputter and die. He pulled off to the side of the road, taking a few minutes to refill the gas tank and shove a handful of bread and meat into his mouth, then continued on his way. Shortly after, the rural highway widened, and the lights of Krasnoyarsk came into view on the horizon.

What followed was a blur of conversation with police and other officials, in which Mulder had to explain, over and over, that he was traveling on a diplomatic visa, that he had been attacked and robbed, that he needed to get to the consulate in St. Petersburg where they would have his identity information on file. For a long while, it seemed that he was going to be detained in Krasnoyarsk until all of his paperwork could be reissued, which the Russian officials claimed could take a week or more. It wasn’t until Mulder managed to convince them to call Ms. Covarrubias’s office that things finally started moving forward. Within an hour, he was escorted to the airport and put on a plane. Someone would meet him at the gate in St. Petersburg with travel documents and a ticket back to Washington. 

Exhausted, filthy, undoubtedly smelling more than a little bit ripe, Mulder collapsed into his seat and was asleep before the cabin doors closed.


End file.
